


Death Rides Out

by gracemorgan



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Highlander: The Source, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracemorgan/pseuds/gracemorgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death on a horse vs cannibals? No contest. :-)  Or what a legendary man found when he visited a legendary place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Rides Out

He rode through the woods and straight at the raging hoard of cannibals, and a part of him was simply appalled that he’d ever consider doing such a reckless thing, a thing that was the very antithesis of survival.  But it would buy Mac time, and after everything that had got them here, he felt some distant twang of guilt at the losses and the need to make the journey worth it.  Of course the other part of himself, the older part, was Death reborn, a horseman of some ill repute and longstanding reputation.  He didn’t have to dig too deep to tap that part of him.  The part that saw the mortal children as wheat to be harvested.  He was Death and he would not be beaten and how dare they think he'd be their victim. 

                He rode through the woods, and the cannibals rode after him, on bikes, on quads, on horses of their own, yelping and hooting and firing on him.  But he’d been riding for centuries before they were even dreamt of.  Millennia.  This was his battle ground and he was _good_ at it.

                He’d told MacLeod that, once upon a time.  Had spun it with just enough madness to drive the Highland child away, buy the time to distract Kronos, to get Kronos on the road away from Seacouver where people he liked lived.

                In truth, he didn’t know what he’d have done if MacLeod hadn’t risen to the challenge.  Probably been dragged into another of Kronos’ insanities, and then, in a few centuries, when things got dull and the world had rebuilt enough, the horsemen would have split and made new lives in what was left of the world.  He would have regretted the ending of the world that was though. 

                They chased him, the hoard against the horseman, and he rode, pushing the horse on, knowing that the beast would not survive this, and that would be a pity too.  A good horse should never be so wasted, but his own survival demanded the sacrifice.  He was mortal and far too vulnerable since the gift of his immortality had been stolen from him by whatever strangeness was connected to the source.  No prize without risk, this had always been so, and he had always weighed his risks carefully.

                He rode a loop through the trees, turning the horses around, and with a howl not heard since ancient times, he charged the cannibals.  This time, Death faced them, and as was inevitable, Death triumphed.   He stole a weapon from the first he met, used it on the next three, leapt from the horse when it was hit a mortal blow, rolling across the ground and round a tree to gain a few seconds.

                The fight was fast. The fight was bloody. The fight was over soon enough for him to steal a fresh horse, load himself up with new weapons and ride fast in the direction Duncan had gone. 

                There was an eerie light on the horizon, and that was a giveaway like nothing else, but the light was on an island, and a dark cold lake lay between him and his goal.  He scanned quickly for a boat, sighing audibly when he realised what he was going to have to do to get to the Source in time.

                With a roll of his eyes and muttered complaint, he pulled his shoes and socks off, stripped out of his jeans and sweatshirt, briefly contemplated swimming with them over his head then realised that it would slow him down and he needed speed.  So he patted the horse, looped its reins around a tree, then wedged his bundled clothes into the angle of two branches.  He’d be wanting that later. 

                Then he jumped into the icy water and swam. 

                He wasn’t the fit freak that McLeod was, but he’d always run to keep lean and fast, all the better to make a strategic retreat.  All the better to live one day more.  And so he cut swiftly through the water and was soon to the island.  He saw the boat bobbing on the shore, and rolled his eyes again, because of course the universe would conspire to give MacLeod a boat.  Far be it that the Highlander had to lower himself to a swim.

                And a quiet part of himself had to remind himself that MacLeod was his friend and he didn’t begrudge him this, even if the man did have the most ridiculous luck.

                And then he heard the scream, the Guardian in triumph or defeat, he couldn’t decide which.  And he saw the strange light flare and he ran, barefoot and oblivious to the gravel and twigs that poked his skin.  He ran and as he came to the small canyon, to the heart of the light, he saw the Highlander jump impossibly high and into the centre of it all, to grab his lady love and there the two were frozen, trapped in a pocket of time, experiencing who knew what.

                And the Source was right there, right in front of him.  He couldn't stop now.

                He was slower going down the stone steps, distantly relieved that the ground was fine sand and far more comfortable for his feet; then as the alignment flared overhead, impossible and defeating all sane astronomy, he climbed the stairs and stepped into the light of the Source.

                For a moment there was silence.  The hollow silence of a snowy dawn when the world was empty and the smallest sound echoed forever.  For a moment the light was overwhelming, making him squint, blinding him to his friend and all else, then his eyes adjusted and visions surrounded him.  Visions and perhaps madness.  Later he’d never be sure which.

                He peered through the light and he saw himself.  A thousand hims in a thousand lives.  He was a Victorian scientist, a Sherlock Holmes, and not able to get the trick of long life despite a most spirited attempt.  He was a doctor, a surgeon, in time after time, and place after place, he was a criminal, an assassin, a thief and a spy, a broker of information and a terrorist, an adventurer, but above all, he was a survivor, no matter the environment, no matter the time.  And as he saw all this, the memories of those lives embedded in his brain, all as real and bone deep as the life that had led him here. 

And he saw others: saw Joe as his friend’s father, saw Kronos as the General of a town and an uneasy friend, saw faces who were familiar flash in and out of his lives, each drawn to each again and again.  And as he saw, as he remembered, as the light consumed him, he knew he had a choice to make.  Didn’t know how he knew, just that in this time, in this place, he had a rare opportunity to pick a life and walk into that world.  Or stay and carry on the life he’d walked here from.

                MacLeod was chasing a new life. Methos knew that without even thinking about it.  The grass infinitely greener, and Methos knew, _knew_ , that when he stepped out of the light Macleod would choose another path.  And Methos was going to step back into his own life, that was never a question.  There was still plenty he wanted to see. A little societal breakdown was nothing. Impermanent.  He’d seen it before, and knew civilisation would rise again.  And as those thoughts settled in his mind the light dimmed and he was gently pushed out, landing on the sand while the alignment rolled out of synch and the stars returned.

                He stood there for long moments, head tilted back and breathing the sharp air, until the cold made him shiver and his own sense of self-preservation bade him move.  He didn’t know if he was immortal again, couldn’t risk that he wasn’t until he got away from the null zone.  He cast a final glance back at where the Source had been, where his young friend had been, the sand, the steps, the cradle of the Source, and then he turned and returned to the boat.

                He rowed across the lake with his thoughts chasing each other, hovering in the memories of all those other lives and carefully he shut them away, as he’d done with a great deal of other things in his many years of life.  He could taste the madness in keeping them fresh, in keeping them active.  And all those lives were an amusement, and certainly fascinating, but they weren’t this life and it wasn’t safe to dwell on them too much.

                But oh he was going to have fun writing this all down in his journals. And maybe, in another ten thousand years, he’d be the sage that the youngsters came to, looking for directions and insight into the mysterious source.  Maybe he’d pretend he’d never been there, and go with them to see how they experienced it. Maybe next time he’d choose another life.

                Finding his clothes where he’d stashed them, and his horse calmly nibbling grass, he dressed and mounted and rode away, back into his old-new life where old friends would be mourned, and new friends would be made and Death would remain a ghost of a past age until such time as he was needed again.

                And in the cold light of dawn, Methos rode.


End file.
